


of love and ruin

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Rarepair Week 2018, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boats and Ships, Brooding, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Fake Marriage, Hopeful Ending, In which Arthur flees with Lyanna and Jon, Melancholy, Rare Pairings, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and tries not to fall in love with Lyanna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 08:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15020858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: He fears it, being close to her, feeling her body press against his now that she is well – now that he is not carrying her down from the tower dying, pale, sodden with blood and sweat, clutching her in front of him on his horse as he fled to Starfall with the babe strapped to a nursemaid who followed behind, the roar of two sets of horses' hooves racing across the dry ground, sending clouds of choking dust into the air so thick he had thought of the wind devils, the ghosts, that the caravan riders spoke of out in the deep sands—If he touched her now, he fears he would be lost, his body stirring his heart to love. As if she is a sweet poison, or hot oil and he the wick of a lamp desperate to burn.





	of love and ruin

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for day 1 of [asoiaf rarepair week](https://asoiafrarepairs.tumblr.com/post/173734497572/weve-all-seen-fandom-events-for-popular-ships).
> 
> if you want visuals, I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/175200830632/he-fears-it-being-close-to-her-feeling-her-body)

 

She is no temptress but he is tempted still.

Even though she is grieving, even though many of those who have loved her are now dead, she carries the marks of one well-loved, in her bearing, her tired smiles, her voice as she sings softly to her babe, in the way she walks the deck of the boat they flee upon and lifts her face to the sun.

She was loved by her father, who died; her brothers, one of whom lost his life, a second who inherited a throne and a burden he did not wish for, and a third who fled for the meagre consolations of the frozen North; the king, whose rage at the loss of her ripped the kingdoms asunder; and a crown prince whose adulterous love destroyed a dynasty and almost cost her her life in turn.

Someone who inspires such feelings is dangerous; someone who expects to be loved - not because they think it is their due but simply because that is all they have known - drags supplicants in their wake, unwittingly, inexorably.

Yet she would, he knows, trade any amount of love to have them, the ones who died in love for her, live again.

She has said as much to him, one woozy evening afloat, when the close summer air filled their boat cabin, when the babe squirmed in his sleep between them, and a pained crease crossed her brow as she shifted and her mending wounds made themselves known.

"What worth is their love when they are dead now?" she said, her voice stark, her eyes young, and he wished more than anything to cross the gap between them and take her in his arms.

But he did not. Husband may he pretend to be, but he has no right to touch her, to hold her.

More than that, he fears it, being close to her, feeling her body press against his now that she is well – now that he is not carrying her down from the tower dying, pale, sodden with blood and sweat, clutching her in front of him on his horse as he fled to Starfall with the babe strapped to a nursemaid who followed behind, the roar of two sets of horses' hooves racing across the dry ground, sending clouds of choking dust into the air so thick he had thought of the wind devils, the ghosts, that the caravan riders spoke of out in the deep sands—

If he touched her now, he fears he would be lost, his body stirring his heart to love. As if she is a sweet poison, or hot oil and he the wick of a lamp desperate to burn.

He has visited many a pillow house, a brothel, has sampled the women available to one favoured by a prince, famed beauties from many lands whose skills surpassed imagining.

Lyanna is beautiful, spirited, lovely; but not any more than others he has met before.

Thus, it should be easy – he thinks disgruntedly, as he paces the deck of the boat before dawn, unable to sleep for more than a few snatched hours with her lying there beside him; feeling the tug of Dorne, of his home, behind them, and the simmering unknowns of new lands ahead - it should be easy not to fall in love with her, not to allow himself to be wooed by the mummery he plays, that she is his sweet wife and the babe his first son – Lyanna's only son, for the birth was a battleground and her body will forever bear the scars.

He is a proud man, perhaps it is that too, he thinks, curling his hands over the gunwale, staring down at the rich blue of the waters as the steady wind kicks the sail behind him, perhaps he simply does not wish to become the third.

Robert, Rhaegar, Arthur.

Who is she to demand three such hearts? Who is she to break three such men?

What did the gods set in store when she was born, what curse did she inherit, what punishments did her ancestors set upon her?

Rhaegar was the one for prophecies, did he not find her there in his books, a girl-child who would ruin every plan the prince strove for?

She did not ask for any of this, Arthur knows, and he is the worst kind of man to place his anger on her or on the gods instead of where it should lie, on the weak lusts of men, on his own foibles, on his own _blindness_ to Rhaegar's plans, on the oaths he made and broke, on the mad king who by rights should have died long ago before he had a chance to ruin his kingdoms.

Rhaegar had inspired love and devotion too, perhaps that is what drew him to her, like recognising like. Perhaps that is what draws Arthur to her too, that he has lived half his life in the shadow of such a flame and now that it has been snuffed out he scrabbles in the dark searching for another fire to shelter beside.

The quiet grizzlings of the babe welcome him upon his return to the cabin, the sight of her lifting her son to her breast, cradling his head tenderly, wincing at the first tug of milk.

He had been young when he said his Kingsguard vows, too young to really know what he was giving up, and this vision before him - of a wife and babe - plucks at a secret chord inside of him, fills him with a kind of hunger.

"He is quieter than I thought he would be," he remarks, sliding the door closed behind himself, sitting down on the furthest edge of the bed.

She strokes a finger down the babe's cheek. "His lungs are still growing, he may be a screamer yet," she says and lifts her eyes to Arthur as he snorts a laugh.

"I am only thankful he does not resemble his father," he then says.

A flash of anger shows on her face before it disappears again. He keeps trying to get her to speak of him, of Rhaegar, and she refuses. It is jealousy that makes him do it now, he thinks. He wants to understand her heart, to read it like a book, from first page to last, instead of fumbling around blindly.

He might say that he hopes the babe resembles himself enough to keep their mummery safe, but that would probably anger her too.

She has not even named him yet, her son.

"Will you give him a northern name?"

She sighs as the babe unlatches and he catches a glimpse of a pale breast, a full nipple, before she tugs her gown up again. "I shan't name him Arthur, if that's what you're asking," she says, almost petulantly, and he smiles, feels the thrill of her scorn like a heated kiss.

The babe waves a fist and Arthur slides closer across the bed to give him a finger to clutch. "He will be strong," he remarks.

"And better with a sword than you," she says and he turns to meet her brazen gaze, feels the brush of her breath across his face.

"Oh, really," he remarks mildly, hands curling in his lap lest he reach out and touch her, brush a raven lock of hair back behind her ear.

The shadows under her eyes, the new lines by her mouth, have only made her even more lovely.

She dips her head to look at her son, shifts him on his lap so that his feet push against Arthur's side, like the boy is trying to kick him away from his mother.

"He'll protect you," he says. From me and the others, he means. Her love for her son will always be stronger, more important, than any love she bears for a man.

"I shall protect him," she corrects.

The babe yawns and stares up at his mother wondrously, and Arthur watches a wave of sorrow pass across her face.

"When I hold him," she says, "it feels like I hold my heart in my hands." She glances up at Arthur uncertainly as if he might mock her and he remembers again how young she is.

Does she think he is so cruel? Does she not know that there is a string between his own heart and her hands that she tugs with every movement she makes, like he is a fish upon a hook.

"I never thought to have children," he says. Or a wife.

"I only thought of myself," she says, folding her lips together as if she might take back her words.

"You were young, he was a prince," he says softly. What maiden could have resisted?

She turns up her lip. "That's no excuse."

The babe kicks him again.

"I know what he was like, Rhaegar," he says.

She turns her head from him and shuffles to stand, fumbling with the sling she made from the fabric he had given her.

They had stopped at Starfall on their way to the harbour, and he had gathered up coins and jewels and fabric like he was a merchant, dashing around the keep while the maesters tended to her, while his sister stalked his steps and tried to get him to listen to her, to look at her. She had told him he was a fool, his sister, a fool half-in-love, and they had parted on bad terms.

Everything Lyanna owns he has given her, this journey is paid for by his coin, as will their new life be. Is he not then both a shield and a cage for her? By rights, she should be more afraid of him, of her situation, but she stares at the future unflinching and lifts her chin, as brave as she was when she gave birth in a bed filled with blood and pain.

"Here," he says, standing up too, helping her slide the knot around her back.

He can smell her now, her sour sweat, her milk and musk. His arms have not dropped from her back, the babe is tucked between them, safe and warm. He looks down at her as she looks up at him guilelessly, eyes dark.

"Lyanna," he whispers and she closes her eyes and steps back.

He lets her go and follows some time after, catches sight of her near the stern, hair streaming behind her like a black banner of mourning, bracing herself against the lifting winds.

The love they gave her, he thinks, helps her live now, survive, like seeds planted deep.

And might his love, the devotion he aches to set before her feet, make those seeds bloom? Or will it be unwelcome, will she turn away from him, will she scorn him? If what he has to give her is drawn from a well inside of himself, will he one day be left dry, empty, ruined?

"Jon," she says, when he joins her, "that is what I will name him."

"A good name," he says, and places a careful hand over hers on the gunwale, neither of them looking at the other as she turns her wrist and takes his hand, gazing out at the shores of a new land.

"You will be his father," she states, squeezing his fingers, "you will look after him if I cannot, and raise him."

"I shall," he swears, stomach aching at the very thought of losing her. And shall you be my wife? he burns to ask, as she lets go of his hand to rub her son's back.

"And he shall learn from our mistakes," she remarks, so quietly her words are almost stolen by the wind and the waves dragging behind the boat.

 _Love is never a mistake_ , Rhaegar had told him, fevered and righteous, when Arthur had admonished him for stealing her away, when Arthur had clutched his prince's shoulders and shaken him, thinking of the girl who slept in the other room, her carefree smile, her wildness. _Love is a gift_ , Rhaegar had said, cupping Arthur's face in his hands.

 _She will be your ruin_ , Arthur had spat out, when what he wanted to say was, _you will be her ruin_.

 _You don't understand_ , Rhaegar had said.

 _I do, you are a man like any other man_ , he had replied, tearing away from him and leaving the room.

A man like any other man, he thinks now, licking his dry lips as she turns to him, looking older than her years.

"Arthur–" she begins and he steps back before she can say anything else.

"I need to pack our things," he says, nodding to the shoreline washing closer to their boat, and stalks away from her.

Inside their cabin, the air smells of the both of them, and of the babe, and as he stares at the tangled linens on their bed he thinks of all the beds to come, of the nights lying there beside one another, of secrets spoken in the dark, of love.

If love is a gift it should be freely given, should not come with expectations. Rhaegar loved her and hoped for a child from a prophecy, Robert loved her and longed for a wife who would turn a blind eye to his indiscretions, her father loved her and plotted to use her marriage to form the foundations of a dynasty.

And Arthur's love?

He thinks of the third night aboard the boat, when the captain had passed around a bottle of wine knocked open in the hold, and how two sailors had sung a song about doomed lovers, their voices weaving together above the wash of the waves, how Lyanna had laughed and danced under the moonlight, dragging Arthur up to dance too, how he had twirled her around and caught her, held her to him for a single breath, felt the soft brush of her kiss on his neck, before he spun her out again, her eyes closed, her face tipped towards the sky.

How, later, he had walked back and forth along the dark deck with a grumbling babe in his arms, humming to him, telling him that his mother needed her rest. How, when he had finally returned to their cabin, feet aching as if he had walked for days and night across the stony deserts outside of Starfall, Lyanna had opened her eyes and smiled at the both of them, a happy carefree smile for just one moment before she remembered everything, all the bodies that lay in her wake, the destruction wrought in the name of love.

To see that smile again, to lift her burden, that is what he wishes for. To keep both their ghosts from the door. To raise a son. To make a happy life with her, out of the ashes of the ones that came before.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, I'd love to hear what people think! :)
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/175200830632/he-fears-it-being-close-to-her-feeling-her-body)


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